


Cut the Cord

by Badendchan



Series: The Happy Huntresses Deluxe Season Pass -- (Exclusive DLC Content!) [2]
Category: RWBY
Genre: (Albeit lighter on the comfort b/c it's a long process but they're trying), Angst, Canon Trans Character, Contemplation Of Gratuitous Arson, F/F, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Misgendering, Stealing Your Own Stuff Back From Your House, Terrible Parents Who Are Bad, The Bigotry Inherent Amid Homogenized Wealthy Elite, Trans Female Character, Transphobia, except none of them are actually happy about this, projecting onto may marigold what are you talking about lmao who DOES that, very happy huntresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28302651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badendchan/pseuds/Badendchan
Summary: "It wasn't supposed to go down like this. Not yet. She had no idea when it would have, or even if she ever safely could have. But then someone discovered something they weren't supposed to, shared something they never had the right to, and at the most catastrophic time they could have chosen to. And didn’t *that* just spark off the whole damn dust mine.Tonight, a perfect storm is set to ravage the Marigold Mansion, and one Marigold in particular does NOT want to be here when it does."(tl;dr May's last night in Atlas.)
Relationships: Robyn Hill/May Marigold/Fiona Thyme/Joanna Greenleaf
Series: The Happy Huntresses Deluxe Season Pass -- (Exclusive DLC Content!) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2030677
Comments: 12
Kudos: 51





	Cut the Cord

**Author's Note:**

> haha what do you MEAN 'partially projecting onto a character sharing the strife of hiding being LGBT amid an intolerant family who vehemently opposes one's very identity, ideologies, or basic sense of morality, written during a holiday season in which obligations to feel close to that family are widespread and inescapable.' that's silly. who would do that, haha. ha. oh right. me.  
> ( ◜◡‾)っ
> 
> Ch'yeah, I dunno. Have some amateurish cringy May-centric angst, with a tiny bit of comfort from her Happy Huntress girlfriends. Runs on the assumption they were a team at the Academy, rather than having met separately, but not necessarily that their ages are the same -- some people take longer to scrounge up the tuition!
> 
> CW for: Transphobia including misgendering, homophobia, racism (anti-faunus and otherwise), vague allusions to past abuse, general bigotry, just... [steeples fingers] Atlas is not a good place.
> 
> (This is all dumb, sorry. M'not a writer.)

_It wasn't supposed to go down like this. Not yet._

She had no idea when it _would_ have, or even if she ever safely _could_ have.

But then someone discovered something they weren't supposed to, shared something they never had the right to, and at the most catastrophic time they could have chosen to.

_And didn’t that just spark off the whole damn dust mine._

Tonight, a perfect storm is set to ravage the Marigold Mansion, and one Marigold in particular does _NOT_ want to be here when it does.

Which finds May furiously packing away, panic held at bay by necessity and purpose. Stripping and scraping her childhood bedroom for anything and everything of value she can cram into her kitbag. _Or pitch out the window._

“One more load coming down.”

Her girlfriends have been on high alert since that morning, the team’s original plans for such an auspicious day stripped down and placed on standby. One is with her even now.

“Got iiiiit!” calls Fiona Thyme from two stories below, wedged in between the topiary shrubs lining the house. A bundle of clothes and knick-knacks disappears into the void of her semblance.

It’s not even like most of this gaudy garbage left lying around has any standing emotional value; nearly any item she’d had half a care about, she’d brought with her to the Academy dorms.

A lot of it May’d just as soon leave to rot – Clothes she never felt fit her, long before she realized her body didn’t either. Fine paintings, a bookshelf’s worth of first-editions, a few musical instruments she never wanted to learn. Overpriced testaments to high-society masculinity, a few dozen suits and ties, platinum wristwatches, golden cufflinks.

The thing is, unlike the rest of the residents in the estate, May has this fiddly fucking thing called a conscience, and that drives her to try and haul as much of this dreck as she can down to Mantle, to dump it on the shelters and nonprofits in need.

There’s a spiteful satisfaction in the thought that within the week, a homeless faunus father of two could walk out of a local charity with the Ⱡ20,000 tailored blazer her parents purchased from a snooty retailer who’d just as soon report him for tracking _The Reek Of Poor_ into his storefront.

May watches the last load of junk zwoop down into Fiona’s glowing palm. “Okay, that’s about all of it.”

“Are you sure? I’ve still got space! If you smash the top half of your window you could probably get your bedframe out – and we’re REALLY gonna need a new bed! One that might actually fit us this time!”

It’s a huge, extravagantly carved dark cedar four-poster. It absolutely _would_ fit the four of them, and absolutely _would not_ fit through the window by any stretch of the imagination. “I’m not crushing you with falling furniture, Fi.”

Fiona turns on the pouty-eyes, and her sheep-ears furl down. “Even if I said pretty please?”

“No. I’m the only one here allowed to be flat as a pancake.”

The faunus stage-gasps. “Hey! No bad-talking your boobs! They’re on their way! Don’t make me come up there!” she chides, waggling a finger. “...Wait, throw me a rope, I WILL come up there! I can just suck the bed right up!”

“Y’really think I keep random ropes lying around my bedroom?”

“ _You?_ Weeeeellllll...”

“MY _CHILDHOOD_ BEDROOM.” _You play ONE game of Truth-or-Dare with a human lie detector on your team..._

Fiona waggles her arms above her head. “I wouldn’t judge Teen May for experimenting!” She thinks for a second, then stifles an adorable snort and snaps her fingers. “I know, just weave me one from your hair, O Fair Atlesian Princess of ours!”

May cards a hand back and down through said mussy blue hair, and frowns. _Still only hits her mid-shoulder to tickle her collarbone. Wishful thinking._

“Ha-ha,” May drones, casting a look back at the room around her. “And we don’t even have the time, we already overdid it. The longer I’m here, the more likely someone from house staff narcs me out and tells my parents I’m on-site.” She leans back out the window frame and adds, “Or somebody sees the unfamiliar sheep faunus skulking the estate grounds at night, and calls the cops.”

“They won’t see a thing! I’m VERY stealthy when I wanna be!” exclaims that same sheep faunus who is, at the time of protest, vandalizing a manicured hedgerow and shouting up at the side of the manor. “And speaking of which, I still don’t get it, why didn’t you just stealth us BOTH inside to start? I could have just come up there and–“ She jabs her palm out splayed and pantomimes popping her semblance. “Swooshed it all right up, bed and all!”

May rubs her temples. _This again._ “I couldn’t just– I didn’t want any of you having to deal with… this. Don’t want you getting the smell of this place on you. Can we drop it?” _Just stop asking. Please. Later._

Having already been squinting to see her girlfriend’s face, Fiona doesn’t need to change much to _also_ do double-duty squinting in complete disbelief. “Huh. Whaaaatever you say. If you’re still super-duper sure you don’t wanna unload some other rooms while we’re heeeeere...”

“Still sure.”

“...Then I’ll call Robyn and Joanna to land somewhere close and… keep watch by the door? Just be safe in there, love-you-bye!”

May smiles, weak but warm. “Same to you, short stuff. Be careful.”

* * *

Bag of necessities slung around her shoulder, May skulks down the long, luxurious, labyrinthine corridors of the Marigold estate for what she _fucking prays_ is the last time.

It’s all so blue. Just like the family hair color is blue, the fancy furniture accents blue, the paint on the walls, the sconces in the halls, all blue. The rugs are gray, but the embroidery? Better believe it.

_It’s almost like a girl could catch a case of clinical depression or something, being so damn blue._

And sure, May likes the color well enough on its own. But there’s something dour about the shade in particular, especially when it’s all around her at every angle, drowning her thoughts in that bleak, bitter ocean blue.

She clears the threshold of the south wing and swears she can palpably _feel_ she’ll never return, like there’s another door slamming behind her with every step. It’s a weird tingle in the back of her brain, the knowledge of _never again._

The blackmail had gone live late that morning, surging across the lower echelons of social media while most were still squeezing into their formal attire. May refused to even watch it herself, not like she needed to know just which candid, private moment of peace – private moment getting to be _herself_ for once – had been spied on through a crack in the dorm room door.

With no one having ever taught her the basic principles of ‘self-care,’ she still did the stupid thing and read the comments. So many said they ‘totally knew it,’ but. No. Screw that. They didn’t _KNOW_ know.

Not a soul in Atlas Academy had known of May’s struggle for self-realization, save a tight-knit inner circle with a few hangers-on that could be trusted not to flip that she was trans. Her team had only found out during a particularly rough night in their third year – _Thanks, Robyn, stupid truth-semblance-having Robyn, stupid… beautiful, smirking, honey-voiced queen Robyn_ – and since then had done everything in their power to validate her.

Things like ‘requisitioning’ her a fitting female Academy uniform. Things like encouraging her to wear said uniform in the privacy of their dorm to feel better about herself. Things like calling her by her name, her _real name,_ and eventually bringing her into the fold of their burgeoning _Girlfriend Gang._

Until someone saw. And scroll in hand, they decided to get one last laugh over on the former Specialist-in-training by lighting a fire under everything she’s struggled to hold together.

And they did it on Graduation Day.

It was _supposed to be_ a new beginning. Shit, they were supposed to be celebrating right now. She should be out toasting her team’s success in the Huntress License Exams, getting sloshed and singing off-key to some stupid pop song that always gets on Joanna’s nerves. They should be moving into their new apartment in the lower city, preparing for their new life as official huntress-slash-political activists.

Wasn’t ever going to be a completely pleasant day, of course, but bearable. May would cram herself into that miserable male uniform one last time, stepping up to the stage with her girlfriends. She had intended to fake a grin and take it on the chin as they announced her by the wrong name before the massive gathering. She’d chance a real one once Robyn politely, but firmly deferred Ironwood’s obligatory offer of military service, briefly commandeered the crowd’s attention, and proudly spoke of their duty to the people, to the poor, to Mantle.

Her parents would be royally ticked, as they always have been when she shows sympathy for the ‘bottomfeeders,’ but they’d get over it in time, things would still be intact come sunrise.

_Except someone! Had to! Be! A! Snitch!_

Carefully-constructed plans turned to desperate last-ditch contingencies. Turned to radical choices to chuck a whole barrel of dust on the blaze, if it’s all going to burn down anyway.

Turned to stomping up on that fucking stage in her _godsdamned girls’ uniform – skirt, stockings and all –_ and _correcting_ Big Mister Headmaster General James Ironwood when he stuttered out her deadname in confusion. Folding her arms as Robyn gave a much more impassioned progressive manifesto than intended, glaring daggers at every one of the graduating class she figured would rat her girlfriend out for shits and giggles.

And now, hours later, here she is. Making a run on the family estate, one last dash-and-grab to clear out any belongings before the staff have standing orders to shoot on sight.

May almost wanted to roll up in full regalia, still clad in her _correct_ uniform, wanted to really dig her heels in. But then, with only bitter guesses as to the sorts of things they could do to her, she reluctantly (and clumsily) disrobed in their dinky rental aircab on the way over. _It took her ages to get the damn thing, she’s not having it torn up if things get violent._

Instead, her infiltration gear became one of Joanna’s grungy green gymrat hoodies slung over an Academy-issue pajama tee, and a pair of Robyn’s track joggers. They’re hideously clashed. They’re horrid. _They feel like body armor._ But best of all, looking like an ugly outsider means she looks like a proper Mantle girl. Means she doesn’t look like… _that._

May’s escape leads her through the lavish family portrait gallery, a monument to the Marigolds’ self-importance. And just another reason she didn’t want her team coming along. The paintings. Of her.

Well, not of _her._ Of… of someone that wasn’t May, memorialized in thick brushstrokes of expensive oils and tempera, in countless framed renditions across the walls of the room. A particularly miserable hall of mirrors.

She’d swear on everything good and holy that the wrinkly old master painter her parents had kept on retainer was given express orders to 'fix her up a little,' to depict her looking more masculine than she already dreads she does. _Which is already too damn much in her personal opinion, thanks._ The bulk added to her jawline, more weight on the form of her brow, her chin, the breadth of her shoulders in that starched-up gray suit. Why?! It’s like a boardwalk caricature.

The only thing the old prune got right were her eyes, that much she’ll give him. Those are hers, alright. Peering into them, she can remember it all clearly, the way she’d felt sitting for every one of these pieces. The queasiness over her clothing, the disdain for being perceived at all, the apathy for the artificial attempt at appearing a happy, healthy family.

And May **hates** it, hates every last picture. She hates the person reflected in that painting, even though she knows it’s her own scared self staring back. Just… younger, confused, before her egg cracked. _She should be more compassionate to her past self,_ her team says, _but that’s… they don't understand how hard that is to do._

She kind of wants to shred them. It’s like their very existence is a testament proclaiming she will never be allowed to.

The hairs on the back of May’s neck prickle once an echoing pair of distant footsteps finally grows louder and prouder than the unobtrusive patter of service staff. Lo and behold, an aristocratic asshat struts into the room. Fwipping his… his stupid hair-swoop the other way ‘round.

“Heeey, cousin. Fancy finding you here. Some, uh. Some stunt you pulled today.”

_Henry._

And the last reason she couldn’t let her lovers come along: The mansion’s other occupants. Henry Marigold saunters into the gallery and posts himself up by a bust of some distant great-grandparent, flashing his open scroll.

“Your team’s a trending hashtag in the upper Atlas metro area. Thought I’d just let you know.”

May leers at him, dead-eyed. “Wow. Shocker.”

Used to her acerbic behavior over the years, Henry isn’t fazed. He cocks his head and watches the looping video of her _shame_ on his device. “Y’know, since you changed out of your drag to come here – if you play your cards right, you could just call it all a hazing ritual or something, stay in Auntie and Uncle’s good graces. I’m only saying it because I care, you don’t have to go live down there in the mud with the miners.”

He _cares?_ He doesn’t give a damn. That hint of a smile tells it all, he’s _jazzed_ about this, he’s thrilled as can be, and for reasons that aren’t too tricky to puzzle out when May remembers what happens to the family hierarchy when she’s out of the picture.

“I think I’ll pass. I’ve got plans.”

Aiming for something close to empathy, Henry lowers his tone, speaking slow and sober.

“Seriously. They’re not gonna let you come crawling back, not after this. Just take a minute and think about it.”

May’s had enough. Choking back that urge to rip down her portrait, and possibly punch her ignorant cousin in the solar plexus along the way, May turns her back and stalks for the far exit.

“Goodbye, Henry. Don’t let the inheritance hit you on my way out.”

* * *

Faster. Down the corridors, down the imperial staircase, down to the entrance, down to the door.

Fuck subtlety. The moment she was out of sight, her pace doubled, just short of an outright sprint by the time she was booking it through the library. She can’t deal with this place any longer.

May hits the decadent double-doors of the entrance hall and flings one open, staring wide-eyed into the darkened estate grounds laid out before her. The clean cobblestone footpath winding out to the gates, the street, the landing pad. Out of here. Gone.

_The door’s open. All she needs to do is leave. Take the last step, before they catch her, before she gives them enough time. She could just turn invisible. And why didn’t she turn invisible already!? She had every chance to. She doesn’t want this, she doesn’t want to be stopped, so why–_

“████ Marigold!”

The bone-deep chill May feels in that moment comes from not from the climate-controlled Atlesian night ahead, but from behind.

_Damn it. **Gods, damn it.**_

“Don’t think you’re walking out on us without a word, young man. Not after what you’ve done.”

Fingers slip from the burnished gold door handle one by one. They fall flat, trembling, then clench into a fist. Chewed nails burrow into her palm.

Why _didn’t_ she just use her semblance, despite knowing the risk?

Maybe May remembered those early days not long after its discovery, her parents placing thick shaggy rugs in every room, able to see the imprint of her shoes even when she faded from sight. Meals denied because they don’t serve ‘ghosts’ in this household. Kitchens locked up tight, in case she tried to feed herself anywhere other than the crucible of the supper table.

So, maybe she remembers just how hopeless it felt even to try and hide.

Or maybe some subconscious sliver of her wanted the fight. Maybe some part of her dreamed of the closure after every nightmare she’s had of this moment coming to pass. Maybe some part of her refused to hide, even if she has to run. Even if it’s only going to hurt.

May pivots back to behold the tyrannical two descending the stairs to the plateau. The heads of the house, king and queen of the castle, Capital-M Mother and Capital-F Father, in the flesh and all their evening finery. Fuckers.

_They won’t give her the dignity of her name, why should she give it to them?_

Her Father couldn’t have picked a more boring black suit to garb his equally boring body. He’s like a constipated rectangle with hotdog fingers. The man is the epitome of generic, all his untold riches unable to make him look anything less like a store-brand bargain billionaire, or stop his well-coiffed, trademark blue hair from dulling to gray.

Rail-thin, a pair of balloons taped to a pool cue with artificially puffed lips and razor-sharp eyes, her Mother’s sheer gala gown is utterly drab for something so expensive. Her bleached violet bun is frayed, probably picked at in an agitated tic from the second some viper in her den of socialites shared the news earlier tonight. Is that Martini #2 or #3 she’s swirling in her hand?

Still, huge rack. Figures May couldn’t inherit _those_ genes. Pffsh.

Father goes first, as he’s always believed is his right. “I suppose you think this is funny, ████.”

 _It hurts._ “I’m not laughing, old man.”

“You know who is laughing?” Mother snarls, “The ENTIRE city of Atlas. At US. At our family, because of YOU!”

_It hurts. She knew it would hurt. It still hurts. Why doesn’t knowing it’ll hurt ever make it hurt less?_

Father idly adjusts his pocket square, because he simply must appear every inch an uptight asshole as he fires another volley.

“We indulged you when you shied away from your social responsibilities to this family, we indulged you when you requested to attend the Academy. But don’t even **think** we’re going to indulge this delusional phase of yours one more moment – my son will not be remembered as a socialist sexual deviant.”

“In order: I never had any, you whined the whole way through my enrollment, it isn’t one but you’re gonna have to, and she’s not.”

Wrapping her arms around herself, May glances through a tall lattice window just adjacent the main doors, and spots a frock of cauliflower in the shrubberies. A hidden Fiona, with her scroll out on [Record].

They planned for this potential outcome, before the operation began – that if-and-when the jig was up, anyone with eyes-on would whip out a scroll and keep it rolling. Unlike the video that started this shitfiesta, this would be for protection. Proof of abuse, if May’s parents went on a warpath.

May isn’t sure whether having her hidden there is giving her strength, or making the barbs sting worse, now that they’re no longer borne in private. Now that someone who actually loves her gets to see.

Sadly, they all know it would never amount to anything in Atlesian courts, even if Mom ‘n Pop Marigold beat her bloody there under the million-lien chandelier while loudly confessing to tax fraud and human trafficking. It’s fucking _Atlas,_ and the Marigolds swing in the same soirees as the Ledniks and Schnees.

“What is this tantrum about, really? Are you _still_ acting out because of this ‘Mantle’ business? Do excuse me for wishing you better than a life wasted on and among thieves and parasites.”

Like she’s never heard that before, from a man born into a bloat of wealth he could never spend in a single lifetime. That wanting to help the destitute scrabbling to get by is more of a _waste_ than that.

“You didn’t seem to have this much problem with my team _before._ Funny, how it’s only once I got outed. Once I wanted to do my job as a Huntress.”

“We thought it was NOBLE of you to want to help uplift those bottomfeed-- those _less-educated lower city women,”_ argues Mother. “And _maybe,_ Brothers willing, you’d get a little more _macho_ to impress some eligible girls your age, might even get one of them pregnant so you’d finally settle down. Not that you’d decide to... what, steal their panties and prance around in them?”

May clenches her teeth as dysphoria rushes her hard, and scoffs at the blatant vulgarity of the idea. “How quaint. And _I’m_ somehow the one who isn’t ladylike, here.”

Mother’s callous humor turns to hateful whinging _real_ damn quick. She sloshes the martini in her hand as she jabs the other at May. Pointing. Accusing. “I may have been high as a kite on pain medication when they pulled you out of me, but I remember what they told me was between your legs all the same. I had a healthy baby _boy._ A son!”

 _Steady, fuck. Steady. She’s not very steady._ “What’s between my legs is business for my girlfriends, my doctor, and literally no one else. Not even you.” _Come on, you can do better than that._

“Girlfriends? ‘Girl,’ and with an ‘s?’ Plural? I can’t believe this,” Mother groans. “A pervert and a polygamist both, and he STILL couldn’t knock a single one of them up?” She turns back from her husband and regards May as something rancid. “If you aren’t out there taking men up the ass to feel more like a woman, why the _hell_ wouldn’t you just **_stay_** a man!?”

The woman never had any formal combat training like her daughter, but years of domestic bliss married to Father has given her a good throwing arm. The cocktail glass Mother wings May’s way has such a clean hook that its remaining contents barely spill ‘til it’s shattered against her shoulder in a splash of liquor and sharp glass shards. The little olive, still on its toothpick, plonks sadly to the floor by her shoe.

As a huntress, she’s taken worse hits than that merely trying to race her partners to the dorm bathroom for first-shower dibs of a morning, let alone in spars. Her aura doesn’t even notice as the broken glass pings away.

But then, it was never meant to cut her body. Aura is commonly understood as a projection of the soul’s energy made manifest to protect the physical form, but the soul can’t typically project extra-super-secret bonus soul to protect _itself._ On _that_ level, the damage is done. That knife tears straight through.

Seemingly satisfied to leave their daughter trembling and gin-soaked in the middle of the entrance hall floor, May’s parents return to grousing amongst themselves in a prejudiced circlejerk.

“If Ironwood’s standards for enrollment were higher... For the tuition we paid, they should have been! Our son wouldn’t have been influenced by this political degeneracy if they just kept the rabble out! I knew it was suspect from the moment we found they weren’t keeping those _beastkin_ corralled in separate classes.”

Whoa, now. It takes a special kind of man to whip out rusty old anti-faunus slurs that haven’t seen circulation since The Great War. _Must really boil their bits that she’s dating one._

“We should have seen this coming earlier; the ethnic one looked more mannish than our son from the start.”

 _And Mother, with the astounding rebound!_ If one of them were overweight, or wore a prosthetic, would she have delicate thoughts for that, too? Or would it be too much ‘diversity’ to handle – fry the last of her brainmeat and leave her gibbering?

_Screw it. Maybe May could just about-face and peel off while they’re distracted with their performative bigotry._

When she so much as slides her foot back an inch, their heads pull a perfectly-synchronized horror-movie whip in her direction.

“You really had to throw away all we invested in your education for those Mantle rats, did you? Your grades were impeccable, you were hand-picked for the SPECIALIST course! Did you not realize how fortunate you were, for a chance to do this family proud? For all his concerns, Jacques’ oldest turned out just fine; you could have had that for US if you hadn’t fed this delusion!"

 _‘Fine’_ isn’t quite how May would describe one Winter Schnee, former classmate in the Specialist-track courses at the Academy and reluctant ‘date’ at countless galas their parents would force them to attend. She’d swear they were trying to encourage them to _breed._

Rarely would they talk about their issues at home, but it’s not like they needed to. Each knew the sort of shit the other was swamped with, and noticing the topics the other avoided did more to tell the story than being blunt.

They were both running from something when they chose the Academy over their family legacies. The crucial difference being one of them saw the fork in the road and doubled down on the dogma, and May veered towards the vast unknown.

Only one of those paths could ever lead to a home. She just hopes she picked the right one for herself.

May shakes her head. “Winter’s military-grade daddy issues have nothing to do with me and mine.”

The purplish vein bursting from the left end of Father’s forehead crosses right over the wrinkle he gets when he pinches his brows, and makes an ‘X.’ May wonders if he’d explode if she poked it. “After all I’ve given you–!”

“Sure, a lifetime supply of personal trauma and the wrong chromosomes. My pop, the philanthropist.”

Father couldn’t care less, but he simply must inquire: “Then WHAT DIDN’T we give you, do tell?”

“Love, next question.” The answer’s instant and mechanical. An objective fact, delivered fast enough for May not to get burned by thinking about it.

Mother grips the banister of the staircase and has the gall to look shocked. “Of course we loved you! We only wanted the best…!”

As if May wasn’t still wearing the evidence of her projectile attack minutes before, Mother’s tactics shift. Worse yet than bitchy anger: the most insidious, crocodile tears spring to her eyes.

“I don’t understand… Where did we go wrong, why are you killing my son…?”

She always knew this was coming, too. Doesn’t make it hurt any less. Pack your bags for the guilt trip, the mourning, the funeral-in-process for their strawman child.

“I was **_never_** your son. That was never your choice to make. You only had one, in all of this, and you chose not to keep your daughter.”

Father wrings his hands behind his back and brings himself up into a stern business stance. Refusing to accept reality, he lays down his ultimatum. _Another shocker._

“This family never had a daughter _to_ keep. Get out of here, go wallow in your precious Mantle. You are no Marigold.”

 _Getting out of here was what she was trying to do in the first place, you shriveled skinsack._ But May can’t leave that loose thread hanging. For her final act of righteous spite, she claws at it with relish.

“Oh! Oh, _but I am,_ Father. I’m never going to be a ‘████.’ But a Marigold? I think I’ll be keeping that attached for a long, long time,” May purrs viciously, carving herself a smug, if trembling smirk.

“So if you don’t want to share with the likes of me, well… I hope you enjoy re-painting every portrait in the gallery. Re-engraving all the plaques. Explaining to the in-laws and party guests. And all the legal name change paperwork – let me tell you? It’s not fun.” She straightens her spine and tugs the strap of her bag tighter to her shoulder, golden eyes burning, swimming. Only a single tear-track breaks through the barricades.

_“Let's see who's the last Marigold standing. Let’s see who blinks first. Fuck around and find out.”_

And then, her semblance kicks in. Frantic footsteps echo down the front garden path. May’s gone for good.

* * *

_She makes it to the edge of the property, and she’s still got it together._

“Are you okay? I saw everything, do- Do you need a minute…?” Fi asks, once they rendezvous past the gilded gate.

_She makes it to the residential landing pads, and she’s still together._

Robyn Hill pushes up the canopy of their aircab rental and beckons the two. “Time to go, girls! We’re over here!”

_She makes it to the backseat. She’s… she’s still holding together._

“Let’s buckle up and bail. I’ve had enough of this city for a lifetime,” grits Joanna from the driver’s seat, flicking a few glowing switches on the dash and cycling the engines for takeoff.

_She makes it ‘til they’re underway, slowly cruising through Atlesian air-traffic, up up and away from her ancestral home. And she just can’t keep it together._

May **sobs.**

After the day’s events, she was already running on fumes, and facing down her parents once and for all meant taking out a loan on rebellious confidence, barring the tears as best she could.

But in the privacy of the aircab, in the presence of her team, the performance is done. The curtain draws, the lights go down, the masks come off, and a thousand pieces of May Marigold shatter all over the back seat, all over Robyn’s shoulder.

 _Ah, shit,_ thinks Robyn unhelpfully.

But. She can’t just SAY ‘ah, shit.’ The leader’s got to keep a level head, and has a hunch this half-hug with an arm slung around the bluenette’s shoulders just isn’t going to suffice.

She’d naively thought they'd fall into their predictable patter once they were all reunited, same as usual: May’d have a stiff upper lip and gripe that she was fine, Robyn would hold out her hand and ask her to prove it with her semblance, the works. They've got a well-oiled routine. But instead their girl just... _crashes._ Hard. Crashes before they can even get safe and settled somewhere they can swaddle her in a blanket and force a mug of cinnamon cocoa into her hands. And they didn't have a contingency plan for high-speed crashes this… speedy.

Robyn flexes to pull May in closer, offering the crook of her neck to cry in, but that’s putting too much faith in May’s internal structural integrity. Gravity has a hold of her, and instead the least-happy huntress ends up flopped sideways in the seat, curled in on herself with her head pillowed on Robyn’s thighs.

That’ll work too.

Under alternative circumstances, May would feel guilty for getting snot and salt on Robyn’s pants. _Also_ under alternative circumstances, she wouldn’t feel like she’d just been gored by a Megoliath tusk. Or stomped on by one? Just. Given the entire fucking suite of possibilities.

_She hated them, she’s hated them for so long, so why does it still hurt? If they don’t care, she shouldn’t care, shouldn’t give a single iota of a shit what they think! So stop HURTING already!_

Reaching down with her left hand to fix May’s messy mop where some strands have stuck to her face, Robyn begins to brush through the younger woman’s hair, gentle and fond.

“How was she?” she calmly asks Fiona, when the faunus turns to scope the situation.

“She was amazing. I got it all. They didn’t do anything we could really use but…” Fiona smiles sadly at her grieving partner. “She was so awesome. I got chills.”

Joanna chuckles and spares a glance from the skies ahead. “She does that sometimes. Still can’t get over that thing with the General. Almost upstaged your speech there, Robbie.”

“Mm. She warmed him up for me. Easier to speak my peace when she already threw him off his cue cards.”

She pat-pats their Bluebird and tries to offer some reassurance. “We’re proud of you, May.”

“Snfk… W-why?” _Like, seriously, why? How the hell do they still even want her around? Her own godsdamned parents don’t want her – parents are always supposed to want you, isn’t that what the stories say? Didn’t those stories say shit about charity, and helping the weak? Was that so wrong, too?_

_Why did these girls even want her in the first place? Did they ever? In their eyes, she started out as a rich brat and a guy, neither of which they’re fond of – Could’ve just been forcing themselves, because they’re just that kind, putting up with all her shit because they’re so selfless compared to her, needy and disgusting and wrong..._

“Hon, if you want the full list, we’re going to be here a while–“

May’s ears don’t even catch the answer. “M’just… I can’t even… s’fucking pathetic… not even...”

Fiona meets Robyn’s worried eyes and mouths, _‘spiraling?’_ Robyn nods gravely.

Abruptly, Jo huffs an “Oh, for the love of–!” from the front, only to crane her head sheepishly and jut a thumb at a passing military transport that nearly clipped them. “Not, uh. Not you, May.”

No worries that May might've misunderstood, because she didn’t even notice the outburst. “Would it really have been that hard? To have kept me?” she limply chokes out towards nobody in particular, eyes dull, lost in her fugue. It’s almost a relief to the rest when she returns to her snuffling, and stops asking questions with delicate answers.

There’s an entire stormcloud squeezed inside the cramped cockpit of their ship, and the air is thick with it. Seeing one of their own so thoroughly broken apart by the boundless cruelty of others in less than eighteen hours time is legitimately starting to scare them all.

Because they’ve all had rough patches, and always been there for one another. May? They’ve already seen her having her bad days, her nightmares, her dysphoria spikes, _but shit._ This is fresh, severe, _visceral,_ and the rental company didn’t pack a queer trauma-focused therapist in the glove compartment. All they’ve got on hand is love, and it’ll have to do for now.

Fiona can’t even imagine how it would’ve shaken her, if Uncle had turned on her once he learned she liked ladies, or was dating a whole herd of humans. Instead, he’d just chuckled knowingly, clapped her on the back, and told her it was a lot more common for the faunus in the old days, the old country. If she’d lost him, would she have even made it this far?

For Robyn, if they were boots on the ground out in the field, this is the flavor of deep-seated existential despair to have her drawing steel. Grimm crave this stuff like a delicacy; they can probably smell it miles from here in the mountain ranges. Had May’s parents been simple outkingdom villagers instead of Atlas elites, they could’ve just called down a whole horde on their heads.

Joanna _kind of_ just wants to throw propriety to the wind for what's been done to someone she loves, and give into that base impulse each one of them is feeling. Veer the ship around and go beat the shit out of a few particular rich people before the day is done. But... she’s not so naive as to think that would ever knock real sense into their skulls; it would never give May what she needed all along. Catharsis only goes so far.

There’s a wet snort, a sniffle masquerading as a laugh, and the other three realize May’s pulled her scroll from her pocket. They probably shouldn’t have let her do that. What if she sees something that makes it worse? What if those pricks’re threatening her?

“Already…” May whispers.

Fiona and Robyn cock their heads. Joanna doesn’t, eyes back on the flightpath, but she gives an inquisitive grunt.

It wasn’t angry texts or death threats. It was nothing, actually, _pointedly_ nothing. When May waves her scroll up, they can see the [NO SERVICE] error message at the top of the display, no CCT account provider.

Figures that any business that _matters_ in this town is tangled in months of red tape, but _hey, you need to disown your daughter in the dead of night? Cut her off every family plan, write her out of the will? Shucks, buster, you know we’ll work overtime!_

“Bet my health insurance is next,” she muses dryly, eyes unfocused and staring right through the thing.

It may be temporarily offline, but Robyn’d rather not chance a stream of hate-texts spilling in all at once if they fly within range of a local cafe with open-access connections. She confiscates the scroll from May’s hands – “That’s enough of that for now” – then wraps them up tight in her own, bringing them back down to rest on her girlfriend’s stomach.

Their ever-fighty May’s got no fight left in her to argue about it. She just… lies there. Blinking up at the canopy.

Spinning backwards in her seat and utilizing creative elbow-positioning, Fiona reaches back to join in stacking hands, laying hers atop Robyn’s and May’s. Joanna’s not about to compromise their safety for sappiness, but she does take one hand off the controls to blindly grope around – thigh, hip, bicep… hands – to complete the pile.

They hold on in silence, until they’re finally at the floating city’s edge. Even if Jo’s and Fi’s arms kinda start to cramp, and they have to recuse themselves.

“So, team meeting. Here’s what we’re gonna do,” announces Robyn, back to stroking May’s hair. “We’re gonna get the absolute hell out of Atlas. Gonna land this heap in front of the first familiar food truck we see and get something in our stomachs. We’re gonna pick up our keycards from the landlord, and we’re gonna go straight home.”

 _Home,_ May thinks, distantly. _She’s in the market for one of those._

* * *

It’s kind of a sty, their new digs.

The interior architecture’s older than any of them have been alive, even with Robyn’s slight advantage at the head of the pack. Much of the maple faux-wood paneling’s been warped and scratched, and the carpet’s a grody sort of dark yellow, more mustard than the amber of May’s eyes. Two bedrooms just means the second’ll get co-opted into a home office, weapon workshop, or both at once. One bath means the war for first-dibs will endure onward into their lives as professionals. No one wants to field hypotheses on the nature of the wide stain on the lumpy living room loveseat.

Having their moving boxes and belongings strewn wherever Fiona saw fit to eject them from her semblance might be par for the course, but it isn’t helping the place look any tidier. Back in the Academy, they’d had the excuse that they were still busy students with hectic lifestyles, but since that afternoon, the excuse no longer flies. They’re just four grown women with an apartment, which apparently means they’re supposed to have _standards_ or something.

Standards can wait ‘til next week, though; they’re all tapped the hell out. The rental service doesn’t need their ship back ‘til Monday, so they’re not pressed to finish their lingering business up top all at once.

They’ve still got to ferry a few final things from the dorm, return their keyfobs and school property, sign a few waivers. Maybe submit that stack of actual-paper paperwork to the dingy subbasement office they found in Atlas’ executive district, who’d been willing to handle the legal name updates for May and her Huntress License.

And as for May… May’s numb right now.

That fire whatever bitch of a snitch lit this morning, the one she’d stoked and let run wild over her life, has burned out a hollow inside her. One no amount of greasy food truck steak carnitas can fill alone – and gods, did they try.

The adrenaline and endorphins of the confrontation have started to piss out of her system, and it’s left her drifting. She asked for some space on the solemn oath that she wouldn’t brood, which means she has about two or three minutes left until somebody finds out she was flat-out fibbing.

So she stands there in bland underwear and someone else’s t-shirt, leaning on folded arms in the kitchen windowsill, staring up at the city in the sky. Even if she’s only got a glimpse of its underbelly, and the Marigold Mansion’s technically on the far end, it’s still Atlas, and Atlas is… was, home. Now it’s just, what, her birthplace? Her supervillainess origin story?

The creaky floorboards make it more than obvious someone’s creeping up on her, but she’s iffy on just who ‘til dark, toned forearms firmly wrap around her waist from behind. Joanna.

"You sure we cant go back and burn it down?" May asks her.

“Hey, I would’ve voted for it,” Jo husks, resting her chin in May’s hair, “but Robs says no arson past bedtime.”

They stare at it for a while, the castle-kingdom in the sky, out of reach and out of touch. Maybe someday, it’ll all come crashing down, someone will put it to the torch… But not tonight. Tonight’s for rest, and they more than deserve it.

“A bedtime which is now-ish, they told me to remind you. They’ve almost got it all made up in there.”

“Mleeeeegh,” mleghs May. 11:21PM is like, baby-tier for a lifetime insomniac. On the other hand, she’s just… spent. And cold. And might just want to be cuddled or something, who knows.

Joanna unhooks from around her middle and steals an arm, tugging May up and out of the kitchen like one of those toy ducks on a string. The lack of profanity kicked up about it is telling.

“...Right? Which is why I’m like, if you are what you eat, and we say eat the rich…” continues Fiona, as the two edge back into the bedroom. “Aren’t we just kicking off an endless cycle of cannibalism?”

Robyn finagles the other end of the fitted sheet over the mattress to mirror the faunus. “As much as I’m a fan of the sentiment, my concern’s the chances they’re gonna taste like… I don’t know, boiled goose. I bet you dish duty the Schnees have never seen a spice rack before.”

May allows herself a thin smile. “Why don’t you ask the girl who’s actually been to their parties? ...Since I’m pretty sure they have kitchen staff drab it down on purpose. Probably think water counts as a marinade and ketchup’s a hot sauce.”

“There’s our Mayflower,” chuckles Robyn, before asking softly and sincerely, “You doing okay?”

“...No,” she answers honestly. “But… I’ll manage.”

“Right. That better be a _‘Genuinely take care of myself’_ manage, and not _‘Nyeh, I’m May, and I’ll suffer shit in silence to prove a point’_ manage,” threatens Joanna, crossing to the far closet and slyly high-fiving Robyn as she goes. “We know how to deal with that.”

“I’ll _manage_ my way to sleeping on the sofa if that’s how it’s gonna be.”

Their response is immediate, voices talking over each other in tandem: _“No, you won’t.” “Nuh-uh.” “Not gonna happen.”_

Seriously, this is, like, tyranny or something. She should overthrow them. Isn’t that what they taught her?

Before May can incite a rebellion against the corrupt, hegemonic ruling class of the polycule – or realize the lack of a vast proletariat to incite – Fiona grabs her arms and tugs her closer, onto the bed, and bodily drags her into the center.

“You were... kinda lost in your head when Robyn said it earlier, so… I’ll say it too. We’re proud of you. And not just for all the junk today, either! But for sticking with us. Even when it cost you a lot.”

Stupid adorable Fi. May has half a mind to give her a piece of… the rest… of the other half, and then she has little mind left to spare as the faunus pecks her lips, and burrows snugly into her chest.

“S’not every day someone from up there gives enough of a damn to join us on the ground. Let alone for good.”

Stupid reliable Joanna. The taller woman crawls into bed behind Fiona, leaning over her to lazily smooch the crown of May’s head, then the sheep’s.

“That’s our Princess. And we’re playing them for chumps, if they think we’ll ever give her back.”

Stupid enchanting Robyn. She hums, tilting May’s head aside to lock lips for a proper goodnight kiss, then – once she’s swiped one from the others and reasserted kiss equilibrium – clambers in to big-spoon May, haphazardly chucking the fuzzy covers over them all.

“You guys... are fucking dorks.”

“We love you too. Goodnight.”

 _Yes, they’re fucking dorks._ But they’re the dorks that took her in, made her a full-fledged member in their incorrigible band of bottomfeeding Mantle rats. Hauled her down from her lonely tower and into their arms, all clad in their rumpled jammies and underwear, under mismatched covers on their tiny bed, in their messy apartment, in their shitty disenfranchised mining town.

_She wouldn’t rather be anywhere else on Remnant than here, at home, with her family._

**Author's Note:**

> (I warned you this would be bad, I warned you it was cringe, I warned you I'm not a writer.)
> 
> One of these days, I'll have to force out some senseless VHH fluff where they can just cuddle and be gay dorks and kiss and not have any angst. One day. But it is not this day. This day... I'm... going to go lie down. And not think about tomorrow. Or anything. Thinking's not great. ( ′︵‵ ) 
> 
> Merry Crimbups to all, and may we all somehow survive.


End file.
